


A Stiff Drink

by Hazza1bigD



Category: Don't Let Me Go - Harry Styles (Song), Kiwi - Harry Styles (Song), Medicine - Harry Styles (Song), One Direction (Band), Sweet Creature - Harry Styles (Song)
Genre: Drunk Harry, Drunk Reader, F/M, Harry x Reader - Freeform, Hawaii, Wedding, harry in THAT white suit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-14
Updated: 2018-09-14
Packaged: 2019-07-12 02:44:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15985943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hazza1bigD/pseuds/Hazza1bigD
Summary: Is there a cure for a broken heart? Is it more booze or just a really good man in a good suit?





	A Stiff Drink

You know you really wouldn’t mind a perfect wedding ceremony in perfect Hawaii for your perfect boss with his perfect bride with the perfect weather, if everything in your life wasn’t so imperfect. Yeah, it’s selfish. Their love is special blah blah blah forever and ever blah blah blah the smiles. The fucking smiles. You maybe wouldn’t be so bent out of shape if your boyfriend hadn’t broken up with you at the airport boarding the flight for this perfect celebration or perfect love.

He couldn’t get your hopes up. That’s what he said. He didn’t want you to wonder or dream about the happy couple being you two because he doesn’t love you anymore. Listen, that isn’t a crime, but pick a better time to do it, asshole. I mean, you were literally at the airport, about to go through security. You still had his dress shoes stuffed into your luggage because he couldn’t fit them in his. Mental note to throw them in the ocean later. 

You know how important the day is, and it is romantic. And sweet. And everyone at the reception is so happy. You keep your smile alive. But your head is spinning with a significant amount of nasty thoughts for just about everyone. 

Thank God for open bars and willful ignorance about what the binge drinking standards are for a woman your size.

You hold it together. You haven’t begun slurring or tripping or showing any visible signs that your insides are crumbling like the coliseum. 

The bartender gives you a little nod because this ain’t your first rodeo. 

“Another whiskey soda, Miss?” 

Maybe you were a little visibly out of it because you order something to really make you forget your current troubles. 

“This is going to sound silly, but could I have a Shirley Temple?” You bring your voice above a whisper just to be heard over the music. He chuckles a bit, but he makes you your drink. Shirley Temples remind you of being a kid. 

You can feel someone nearing. You know a lot of the guests, but out of the corner of your eye you recognize the wedding guest everyone knew. They took video of him during the ceremony instead of the bride. Did you produce a visible eye roll? Because on top of all the perfect things: Harry Styles. 

You’d seen him visit Jon before at the office, and you know they were friends. It’s just. You’re not an avid follower. He’s just never looked so good in his entire life. You were positive about that. His shirt was open enough to see the black ink on his toned chest. The white suit made him look perfectly tan. His hair was ruffled just enough. The rings. And for some reason, it all annoyed the shit out of you. 

“You’re not one of those get-drunk-and-cause-a-scene-at-weddings guests, are you?” He leans over to ask me privately. 

“Is it that obvious? I was going to start by openly weeping on the cake before it’s cut.” You deadpan. 

He laughs. Just as you suspected. Perfect fucking smile. The bartender tops up his glass without him actually saying anything. Liquor the color of his hair. Maybe he’s the one who’ll start a scene. 

“Have fun then. I’ll be over there somewhere accidentally insulting the groom’s family and losing my job.” You walk away. One foot in front of the other now. Don’t stumble in front of the pop-star. 

“I thought I recognized you. You work with Jon?” He did a little jog, the kind when you’re not really rushing but someone is holding the door open for you. 

“Ya. I work for Jon.” You sip the syrupy bubbles through the little stirrer straw. Another thing that reminded you of being a kid. 

“I’m Harry.” He offers his hand to shake. You look down at it. 

“I know.” You need to find your seat. You give a false smile and turn away. 

“Hey! How many have you had? You’re supposed to tell me yours.” He offers his hand again. 

“Y/N.” You shake. And guess what else? Perfect fucking handshake. It felt like he held your hand in his forever, but it’s definitely the five whiskey sodas you’ve had, right? “How many have you had? You’re supposed to give me my hand back.” You quip. 

“Sorry. Is that your seat over there?” He points to exactly your spot.

“You really don’t want me crying on that cake, huh? Are you my security detail?” You walk towards the seat. He follows. 

“Since you’re here.” You pat the chair next to you. He lifts the name from the plate. 

“Won’t Pete be mad I’m taking the seat?” He turns the card to you.

“No. He won’t. Or really. He may be mad, but he’s not here so.” 

“Oh, ok.” 

“You can have his dress shoes if you want. Though I doubt they’re in your ...taste.” You look up and down him. 

Harry finally sits and whispers, “Did you... kill Pete, Y/N?” You feel things more honestly when you’re drunk. You can’t control your smiles when you get like this and someone cracks a bad joke.

“Imagine if he was dead, and you asked me that.” You take a deep breath and sigh. “Imagine if he was dead. Period.” 

“That bad? What was it? Secret family? Drug cartel? STD? Shagged your dad?” 

“I wish. He dumped me before the flight. He didn’t want me to be hopeful for our future. Romance being in the air and whatnot. Really quite stupid on my part to be hopeful for our future after three years of my past is with him.” You pick up his tumbler of brown liquid. “May I?” 

“Yeah. Course.” You swallow it in one go and nearly choke. 

“Thanks.” You set the glass back down. “Anyway, weddings are expensive and flights are expensive and hotels are expensive and when you’ve already booked them all...” 

Harry stays quiet. You turn your eyes to the dance floor to avoid seeing his eyes anymore. They’re... perfect. Nice going, dummy. You can’t keep your mouth shut maybe that’s why Pete’s gone and no one will ever want to ‘get your hopes up.’ Harry stands. You don’t know why, but you can feel the tears welling. This is why you don’t tell anyone anything. Just keep to yourself—

“May I have this dance?” He offers his hand.

“No. I won’t have you dancing with the sad drunk girl. Not when you look this good. It’s wasted on me. But thank you.”

“What’s wasted is you looking like that crying over some ... Pete. Besides, I can hardly stand maybe I’m the one who’ll cause a scene.” He winks. 

You groan as you stand up. You barely lift your feet to follow him. If a toddler rag doll had a tantrum, you’d look a mirror image to that. 

It’s a slow song, so he pulls you up straight. His hands tug your waist towards him. “C’mon then. Hands up here.” He uses his chin to gesture to his shoulders. “You’re making this look more like an abduction as opposed to a seduction.” 

You burst with laughter. He laughs, too. You put your arms around his neck. He tugs you a little closer. You can see a young woman approaching from behind Harry. You begin to sway. Not just to the music. As she taps him on the back, phone at the ready for a picture. You feel so overcome with something— you sort of forgot what this feeling was. Sweaty and dizzy and — you’re gonna throw up. “I’ll be—“ you cover your mouth and run for your life. Or for the life of the dress you’ve worn to the wedding, really. 

You barely open the bathroom stall before you hurl your guts out. Thank God your dress didn’t have any hanging bits. Your hair on the other hand, definitely fell victim. Once you have entirely emptied yourself (apart from the deep shame that you have been filled with) you try to wash the ends of your hair that ended up in the crossfire. 

You realize someone is watching you. You tilt your head. The same girl who just tapped Harry on the shoulder. 

“Please, if you’re going to take a picture, get me from my best angle. I’ll go put my head back in the toilet.” You say edged with sarcasm. 

“Do you... know him?” the girl asks me all wide-eyed. She says the word him like she’s talking about God. “You must know him. He’s outside waiting for you.” 

You groan. Grab a hand towel (not a paper towel for a perfect wedding, of course) and try to dry your hair. You make eye contact with yourself in the mirror. Pathetic. There’s vomit on yourchin. You’re starting to sweat booze. You can’t believe you thought for a minute you were holding it together. In an effort to not embarrass yourself further, you’re going to your hotel room. Maybe for a little. Maybe for a lifetime, but either way, you’re going. You walk with purpose, swinging the ladies room door. She was right, he was right there with his white suit with a glass of water. 

“Perfect.” You throw your hands up in defeat and walk past the perfect man in white.


End file.
